Under Gods
by dragontank1414
Summary: 10 rather insignificant characters, each possessing their individual skills, faults and beliefs, will play a heavy role in the ascension of the Dragonborn. this is merely 10 paragraphs, devoted to each character class, to establish them and myself as a writer.
1. Argonian

Wih-Ju was clever, even for an Argonian. He chuckled to himself as he hoisted himself out of the water using the anchor chain, as his rather brilliant plan played out in his mind. The pirates would not remain docked in Windhelm for long, most likely drinking. Will make his plan go much, much smoother. Slip in, hide, and wait for them to set out for sea before quietly killing each filthy sea dog and taking the boat for himself. Obviously the boat couldn't be rowed by him alone, no this 20 foot vessel would need a crew. Precisely why he had his contact on the small island south of Solstiem. Let the ship gain speed, murder the trash onboard and toss it overboard, then dock this behemoth ship and bring in his own little crew. Take this stash somewhere nice, away from prying eyes. A cave somewhere... no, he's lost three hauls of goods to the random wanderer. Then the thought occurred to him: why not sink the vessel? Nothing in here that couldn't survive getting a little wet. Except for maybe the food, but that he was going to unload and sell to his contact along with a good portion of the loot. The rest... well, call it a... retirement fund.


	2. Breton

Surani clutches her little doll closer, the small toy her mom made for her. Her mind drifts back to thoughts of her mother before she forces them aside, shaking her head as she trudges thru the snow, the 6 inch snow nearly reaching her knees. There was no one to take her in but that's ok, her momma promised her doll would always protect her and so far she had been right. Despite the bitter cold she managed to keep her body heat up using a little bit of magicka, able to tap into the abundance of the magicka around her thanks to her enchanted black robes, her Breton blood making her skin a conduit for magicka, her mind empowered with the knowledge by the great divine Jullianos on how to wield the very fabric of nature. She hides her doll in her robes when a couple men walking up a hill come to the crest of the hill to the path she is on. She kisses her amulet, the same Amulet of Jullianos her mother wore when she was a sellsword doing mercenary work to put food in Surani's belly. The first man chuckles "Mmm hey there little one are you lost?". He and his pal chuckle as he gets the desired effect, frightening the seemingly defenseless little girl, who turns away from them. "Oh come on I just want to be your friend, where's your mommy, you little brat?". She turns to him and a bolt of lightning strikes his iron armor, the bolt hitting him square in the chest, directly over where his heart is, which beats no more and sits in his chest, now cooked. He lands back a couple feet, dead before his limp body touched the snowy stone path. His friend looks into the bright blue eyes of this exceptionally strong little girl and he feels for the first time in his life genuine dread, seconds before his life was extinguished.


	3. Dark Elf

Fire. To burn... there are many degrees of burns. A first degree burn seeps into the consciousness, awakens you. A second degree burn tears away at your thoughts and flares up, when fueled with passion, rage, emotions that are extreme and are like the flame, intense for a few seconds and then flicker away when there is no longer a fuel. A third degree burn scorches the very perception one holds on reality. Forces you to question existence, then fills you with and undying flare to answer why. Fire is all consuming, both destructive and creative, a light that casts a dark, wicked and fearful shadow. To Tidril Sarys, this is the same passion he feels, communing with the great Azura. After all, Azura is one and the same as the passionate ancestral fire that burns in the hearts of every one of his Dunmer kin. Being both dusk and dawn, Azura is both the light and the dark. And much as no tree can escape the wrath of a wildfire, no mortal, men or mer, can escape Azura's wrath. As his glass dagger plunges into the heart of the foolish and traitorous mage, Tidril thinks to himself how much mortal life is like the burning flame, but revels in knowing his flame will burn for quite a long time... an inferno, impossible to vanquish.


	4. High Elf

One too many attempts at trying to free prisoners from Thalmor control has left Errissa captured herself. It was only a matter of time before her luck gave out. She kisses her amulet of Mara and one of the Thalmor torturers opens her cell and walks over to her, ripping it off her neck. "Tell me where your other companions are holed up. And the location of the two bandits you managed to sneak away with" he demands in a very irate tone. "I'm getting the impression we wont get along well" Errissa chides, and he groans "We can make these easy, or very, very difficult". She shrugs "Actually your mistaken. I can make this easy on you... or very, very aggravating". His furious response is immediate, he backhands her, busting open her lip, but she doesn't cry out or show any signs of pain, instead she grins "you hit like a child". This only angers him more, but this is causing the desired effect. The longer he is down here, the longer he's distracted, the easier time her knight in shining elven armor should have sneaking in. This thought is interrupted when he yanks her to her feet by her hair and knees her in the stomach, then cuffs her to the chains hanging from the ceiling. "I hate doing this to my own, but you are no longer one of us. You're a traitor. Stormcloak sympathizer. You're worse than trash and you don't deserve my time". She shrugs "And I hate what he's going to do to you". The man spins around as Lorund, her husband, thrusts the elven sword straight thru the shoulder of the mer, right in the chink of his elven armor, and the blade fries every one of his nerve endings with a debilitating shock that makes him go limp.


	5. Imperial

Cidius Albuttian, 5th Brigade, stationed at Fort Greenwall. At least he was before Stormcloaks stormed the castle. He clutches his Amulet of Zenethar, but he knows it wont heal the many wounds left by arrows and swords from the Stormcloak attack. The cold does wonders for wounds though, causing the blood to quickly congeal, but these wounds make it difficult to retain his body heat. Maybe... rest a while. heal up? No. He would never wake up. Only option is to keep moving. Towards Whiterun. Then he could establish contact with Imperial command by courier. Just something to tell them that he wasn't killed. Wouldn't want his wife and children to worry. After perhaps the most agonizing mile or so of his entire life, Cidius is assisted in by guards, to the Temple of Kynareth. Not often Imperials get this sort of treatment by the Nords, but at that moment he wasn't an Imperial in the eyes of those Nord guards, he was a man at death's door. Dianica stands over the man as he is laid on the medical bed "You are very hurt. You are lucky you didn't die on your way in here". Yeah. Luck.


	6. Khajiit

"I am Tsabhir. Cathay warrior, Tsabhir believes you need strong Khajiit women in caravan. I am a very capable..". Tsabhir is cut off by the female Khajiit caravan leader "Ubaashid have strong male muscle to protect goods. Ubaashid no fool, knows you only wish for meal ticket. Buy goods, or move aside". Tsabhir sighs and marches away, ignoring her hunger pangs, as she heads south away from Dawnstar. Too proud to resort to thievery but tonight she would need to eat something... fighting bandits for food could be fatal with her strength waning, but then again, starvation was no way to die. She picked up one thing from the Nords known as the Companions, the honor of death in battle. And it makes sense. Dying fighting for something important. Most die for freedom, equality, justice. Suppose Tsabhir was fighting for the right to eat. She hoped her Amulet of Arkay could keep her going. Maybe she would find a bear, start a campfire... oh wait, never learned how to start a campfire. Tsabhir mentally slaps herself, her abysmal lack of survival skills past combat rather pitiful, and Skyrim is an unforgiving mistress. She spots a rather large smoke trail to the south. Looks too large for just a common campfire, but it will work. After all one cannot eat raw meat it is rather upsetting to the stomach. Perhaps tonight she will eat. Just got to push on.


	7. Nord

Ingmad pulls on his steel armor, the chest plate first and adjusts it until it fits firmly to his torso then pulls on his legs, shin guard boots, and his steel bracers. Last his helmet, then grabs his steel great sword, giving it a couple test swings. "I'm crazy to do this, I'm too damned old for combat" he says aloud to himself. But he knows he doesn't want to die of old age. No honorable Nordic warrior does, particularly a champion of combat such as himself. He's cleaved men in half with a steel battleaxe, shattered a giants kneecap with one mighty swing of his hammer. He's taken out entire bandit encampments single handedly. But he was going to challenge a foe stronger than petty thieves. No, he would be marching out to fight the Forsworn, a fight few walk away from unscathed... the Forsworn are unexpectantly cunning, unmistakably skilled and incredibly deadly. He walked out the door of his house, an old friend by his side. The reaper would get his soul. And many others if the old man had his way. He walked to the Shrine of Talos, near his house in Markarth, somehow kept hidden from the Thalmor in Understone Keep, cozying up to the Jarl. He gives one last prayer and leaves at the feet of the God of War Talos his amulet.


	8. Orc

Blood flows from the wounds and pools upon the snow, a rather beautiful sight in this tundra. The way the blood contrasts against the blinding white. Mashag Bolak grins, trudging through the snow at a slow place towards the bandit, and his arrow hits Bolak's orcish armor and the arrow shatters, the feebly hand crafted arrow shaft breaking on contact. As Mashag's sword drags through the snow it leaves a trail of blood. The bandit shoots again the arrow hitting his helmet and reflecting to the side. The desperate bandit draws his sword and abandons his bow. The young orc chuckles, knowing this fool cannot best him in a close range battle, and he was more right than he could of been aware, this drunk fool runs to the heavily armored orc and swings his sword carelessly. The beast uses his shield to bash away his weapon and breaks his arm, then the foolish bandit's blood decorates the ground as his gut is split. As he doubles over in agony the orc raises his sword to finish him... but decided against it. He tracked Mashag and attacked him with his 4 comrades, all of which Mashag has already cut to ribbons. Mashag figures why not make him suffer a while? He sits on a rock nearby, pulling some salted dry beef from his pack, and chewing on it. He smiles at the bandit and holds it out to the man who crawls towards him slowly "I'll be honest, I expected you to have died by now. You lost a lot of blood, I'm pretty sure you need that to survive. But you know, I hope you live long enough to tell the next bandit you see that I'm not to be trifled with... but no. Then I wouldn't be able to have such merry fun. The lord Malacath smiles down upon such a beautiful slaughter. So crawl back to your friends. Tell them of what you endured today. Tell them to send their best if they hope to kill me".


	9. Redguard

Sparks fly from the wheel grinder, sharpening the cool steel, Sharli slowly moves the edge of her scimitar along the grinding wheel as her legs work to keep the wheel turning. A cold chill cuts through her Redgaurd garb, but better a chill than a sword. Too many close calls. So many bandit raids, enough that her sword is becoming dull. Boats being taken out by the dozens daily to these bandit raids. She cannot afford to stay docked for long, but the crew needs rest, the weapons need maintenance and she needs actual sleep. Her people are accustomed to warm desert sands not bitter cold seas. Now she understands why the Khajiit have so much trouble adjusting to life here, the cause of their home sickness. The local Nords are not particularly kind but of course she sees the distrust in their eyes from generations of war with elven kind, trust even amongst one's own race can be hard. But these Nords, particularly those in Windhelm, are rather cruel. She hears the battle cry and from a small cave she had unfortunately missed come 3 bandits. From the tree line she sees three others, and to make matters worse, an Argonian bandit grabs the lookout who was on the boat and pulls him overboard into the water. Grabbing both her swords, she says a hopeful prayer to Kynareth... but is not particularly hopeful.


	10. Wood Elf

Kirsty leaps from one dead tree to another, effortlessly balancing on the branch as she draws her bow, her prey in sight. Breath in deeply. Draw slowly. She feels the light cool breeze and hears the string become tense as she draws back the arrow to full draw weight, watching the deer eat jazbays near a steam fissure. She let her heart rate steady out and her breathing slow before releasing the arrow, it flies upon her predicted path, hitting right between the third and forth rib on the deer's left side. A merciful and painless death as the arrows travel speed and her accuracy provide a near instantaneous death. May Stendarr guide this animal spirit to the world beyond, she thinks to herself before scanning the area, bow drawn and approaching her very skillful kill. She pulls from the carcass her arrow, then puts a hand over the wound, speaking a prayer to Stendarr in a hushed tone. From the few trees that manage life around this area where a hot spring bed has risen appear her two closest friends and hunting companions, each holding a knife they had crafted themselves, fit for skinning furs. The man, who is around 6 foot, which is tall for a Bosmer, smiles. "Your shooting is incredible. Archery may be in our blood but it is more than a ancestral gift, you have truly honed your craft Kirsty". She nods and blushes slightly at her companion Endras, whom she has grown rather fond of. The female, who only stands a few inches taller than Kirsty at a mere 5"8 smiles as well "there is no doubt we shall all eat well tonight. These berries seem to only grow here, and are undoubtedly fit for eating. Kirsty, you should begin the fire while we skin the deer, and pick some berries." And such was Kirsty's life. A life her ancestors would want for her, the life of a wild hunter, lethal but merciful.


End file.
